Vikings in those days preyed on one another as freely as on men of alien blood.  They came out to fight, and better sport could generally be had from a crew of seasoned warriors like themselves than from the softer peoples of the south.  Particularly were the Orkney and Shetland islands the stations for the freest of free lances, men so hostile to all semblance of law and order that the son of a Norwegian king would seem in their eyes a most desirable quarry.  Many a load of hard-won spoil changed hands on its way home; and the shores of Norway itself were so harried by these island Vikings that some time later King Harald Harfagri descended and made a clean sweep of them in the interests of what he probably considered society.

The two vessels floated close together, the oars were shipped, and there, in the grey prosaic early morning light, they heaved gently on the North Sea swell, and awaited the approach of the ten.  A few sea-birds circled and screamed above them; a faint pillar of smoke rose from some homestead on a distant shore; elsewhere there was no sign of life save in the ships to seaward.

Thorkel, leaning over the side of his vessel, told a tale of buffetings by night and day such as Estein and his crew had undergone.  That morning he said they had descried Estein’s ship just as the day broke, and almost immediately afterwards ten long ships were spied lying at anchor in an island bay.  For a time they hoped to slip by them unseen.  The fates, however, were against them.  They were observed, and the strange Vikings awoke and gave chase like a swarm of bees incautiously aroused.

Apparently the strangers considered themselves hardly yet prepared for battle; for they slackened speed as they advanced, and those on Estein’s ships could see that a hasty bustle of preparation was going on.

“What think you—­friends or foes?” asked Helgi.

“To the Orkney Vikings all men are foes,” replied Estein.

“Ay,” said Thorkel with a laugh, “particularly when they are but two to ten.”

By this time the strangers were within hailing distance, and in the leading ship a man in a red cloak came from the poop and stood before the others in the bow.  In a loud tone he bade his men cease rowing, and then, clapping his hand to his mouth, asked in a voice that had a ring of scornful command what name the captain bore.

“Estein, the son of Hakon, King of Sogn; and who are you who ask my name?” came the reply across the water.

“Liot, the son of Skuli,” answered the man in the red cloak.  “With me sails Osmund Hooknose, the son of Hallward.  We have here ten warships, as you see.  Yield to us, Estein Hakonson, or we will take by force what you will not give us.”

The man threw his left hand on his hip, drew himself up, and said something to his crew, accompanying the words by gestures with a spear.  They answered with a loud shout, and then struck up a wild and monotonous chorus, the words of which were a refrain descriptive of the usual fate of those who ventured to stand in Liot Skulison’s way.  At the same time their oars churned the water, and their vessel was brought into line with the others.